


i. sanguinis

by Languishing_Marble



Series: i stop somewhere, waiting for you [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s04e07 It's the Great Pumpkin Sam Winchester, Gay Sam Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, It hurts my soul, M/M, Pre-Slash, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Sam Winchester, Season/Series 04, sam is just so hopeful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26463181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Languishing_Marble/pseuds/Languishing_Marble
Summary: The weight of an angels eyes meeting his at those words; “Sam! Sam, wait! It’s Castiel.”It’s Castiel.“The angel.” He added, pushing down the gun.Like he needed to say that. Of course it was the angel, the angel he’d prayed to for Deans protection, the angel he was definitely grinning at like an idiot. The angel.Season 04 SastielPre-Sastiel, Sam-centric, Gay and kinda-religious Sam stuff
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester
Series: i stop somewhere, waiting for you [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923772
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	1. even if it burns.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m forever a child looking out my window at the night sky  
> Thinking one day I’ll touch the world with bare hands  
> Even if it burns. - Tracy K. Smith
> 
> This handshake haunts my very soul
> 
> NOTE - this chapter lines up with S04E07, but is like the only chapter to focus on an actual episode this much so if you hate when fanfic does that don't worry

Research was something he couldn’t help, all his life, from 14 to 25 he’d been drinking triple red eyes in the library, looking through ancient books that smelt like home just as much as the Impala or Dean did. It was an important job, Bobby taught him that, while Dean was outside shooting for practice to get out of helping. Sam dove into tomes and manuals, watching Bobby tell innumerable hunters on the other side of the phone things that saved their lives, saved other people, killed monsters. Falling asleep on Bobby’s couch with pages still open in his lap, waking up in the morning a blanket over his shoulders that hadn’t been there that night.

“You did a good job yesterday Sam.” Bobby told him that morning as he slid the extra leftover piece of bacon onto Sams plate, much to Deans annoyance. Sam probably would have given it to Dean if they were alone, but Bobby sat with them, in his dusty warm kitchen. Worn table under hand, thinning curtains keeping out the early sun. Back before Sam’s feet met the floor from his seat. It was the best bacon he’d ever had.

And even though he didn’t have to at Stanford, didn’t have to without a case, he did. What else could he possibly do with his time? His dad had trained him to be a hunter his whole life and hate it as he did, it was in him, his one hobby. That had been how he’d gotten into true crime; it was a pretty easy transition, less monsters, more court cases. It fed into pre-law pretty easily too.

And he researched prayer, every type he could, angels, God, Gods, creation. It turned into just as much of an obsession, without his brother to poke-fun behind his shoulder. He’d bookmarked and written in the margins of Milton’s Paradise so much he had barely been able to read it. That research had become a prayer in itself. _Of course you can’t just have faith. You have to know everything about it first don’t you? Think Dean will be hunting an angel sometime?_ Hindsight, what a joke.

He’d left Milton in Stanford, in that burnt out apartment, just a few feet from Jess, he wondered where it had been donated – if it had survived at all. Who was reading his annotations, his note’s? How crazy did they think he was? Writing hunters notes out of habit in the margins.

It’d been three years. To the day. Since the fire, since he last saw Jess.

That was when he met an Angel of The Lord.

When he heard about Castiel it had hurt a little, Dean had been so adamantly against Sam’s faith, so unimpressed – he loved Dean, but it was a hard pill to swallow that Dean was chosen by heaven, saved for a purpose. All while Sam was trying to defeat Lilith the only way he knew how. Praying for forgiveness on it every night. He loved Dean though. He was glad he was back. So grateful for that heavenly intervention.

He’d prayed to Castiel, two nights after he’d heard about him. _Hello, uh angel Castiel… this is Sam Winchester. Thank you, for saving Dean, thank you. Please keep looking over him – I know Dean said you were but… it doesn’t feel right to just expect that of you. So thank you. It’s uh- I- Thank you for bringing my brother back, and for looking over him. Amen._

So when Sam pulled out his gun, ready to shoot an angel of the lord in their motel room, and Dean had had to stop him, what else could he do but freeze up, get anxious. The weight of an angels eyes meeting his at those words; “Sam! Sam, wait! It’s Castiel.”

_It’s Castiel._

“The angel.” He added, pushing down the gun.

Like he needed to say that. Of course it was the angel, the angel he’d prayed to for Deans protection, the angel he was definitely grinning at like an idiot. _The angel._

Dean said something else, but it was what Cas said that Sam heard.

“Hello, Sam.”

In response to the most wonder and awe Sam had ever had towards anything, in response to faith manifest. _Hello, Sam._ And faith incarnate knew his name. With a gentle, hum of a throat; _Hello Sam._ He immediately wanted to flinch inward at the thought that maybe Castiel _had_ heard his prayers, of course he probably knew his name already – in whatever way it was that heaven must know all – but it was somehow and suddenly the worst feeling to know that Castiel may have heard him. That someone was listening, who could look into his eyes and hear him. Prayers felt private, felt like an escape. But Castiel caught him, staring right into his eyes with the fascination of someone looking at a painting that they had already seen and understood for a thousand years. As if he had toured this gallery for millennia.

What did that painting look like? The Knight of the Holy Grail. Waugh or something. So full of light and benevolent distance, man kneeling before heaven, unreachable even within reach. But here was one of Gods angels, here in Sam’s motel, who hadn’t smote him when he’d ignorantly pointed his useless gun at him. There were no wings. No white glow. No parting clouds. No looming height. Castiel was a little shorter than him, about the same height as Dean. A familiar height.

“Oh my God” His response was so knee-jerk he could kick himself; how could that be the first thing he said to an angel? That wasn’t the thing you first said to an angel. Or maybe it was? Maybe when Jacob first saw the man at daybreak by the stream, he started that fight with those words. Who knows what Mary, or Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, or Daniel had said… probably not ‘Oh my God’.

“er – uh – I didn’t mean to – sorry.” He tried to collect himself well enough to say anything that meant something, to keep the moment, to let an angel know what it meant to even see him, to even know he was real. “It’s an honour, really, I – I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Maybe it was some form of sincere awkwardness, passed down from shaking so many hands with a fake badge at the ready that he stepped forward, and outstretched his hand to the angel. But the intention almost immediately turned as he did it, without even realising. Because what was so instinctual for Sam, was not – for whatever reason – the case for Castiel. His hand stayed alone between them for too long. It had suddenly become a test – was Sam worthy of touching an angel. Dean had been held, gripped tight and raised from perdition, but Sam? Sam knew what that difference was. It was the reason Dean could say less than ten prayers in his life and Sam had said more than a hundred, the reason Sam was working with a demon and his brother had been rescued by heaven.

When Sam lifted his eyes to meet the angels, all these conclusions pushing in on him. He saw Castiel studying him, gently and curiously, head tilting like a bird. He wondered if the angel saw all of that pass through Sam’s mind, or if he’d heard Sam’s prayer, or heard all of Sam’s prayers, directed to Castiel or not. How much of Sam had Castiel gathered in the centimetres between his hand and Castiel’s. He felt his hand twitch, pleadingly silent.

The angels mouth flickered, edging on saying something. He took his hand. Solid and calm. Sam wasn’t burnt up from the inside for his impurity, he didn’t crumble under the hand’s strength.

“And I, you.” Castiel looked at him, right in the eyes. Like he was gauging the reaction, what he should do next. Such a human reflex Sam was almost taken aback. He was hesitating, as he did before he took Sam’s hand, he was choosing the right words to say.

“Sam Winchester;” a deep graveling voice, the voice of heaven. The hand of an angel in his, soft and un-calloused against Sam’s worn palm, his second hand, coming up to cradle Sam’s altogether. As if to soften the blow of what he next said, “The boy with the demon blood.” It felt like ice creeping up in his lungs. “Glad to see you’ve ceased your extracurricular activities.” Even as Castiel’s other hand had closed around Sam’s, as comforting and as kind a gesture it was, as much as he could see a genuine gaze meet his as the angel spoke, he enjoyed that moment of comfort for a brief second before the realisation of what those words meant hit him.

He _was_ unworthy of shaking an angel’s hand, and Castiel had lowered himself to doing it. Even with all of the godly kindness he had mustered in his eyes, Castiel was right. Sam had been trying and trying and he was still tainted and damned.

“Let’s keep it that way.” The other added, colder than Castiel.

Sam tried his best to keep track, listen, focus. He tried not to feel the residual hum in his hand from where the angel had touched him, encased his hand in that golden television static; maybe he could feel that, feel it still, for the same reason he could sense demons, or sometimes spirits. But that had to be wrong. Demon blood in his cursed veins, sitting in his cursed stomach, that was damnation. Maybe the hum was the small amount Castiel’s angelic energy he could get from the angel’s hand fighting and burning at the demon blood. That thought made him so uneasy, made his stomach sway, it was not unflattering. It was just that. But maybe that’s what everyone felt from angel hands. What Dean had felt a-hundred-fold on his shoulder, on that hand-print.

“And is the witch dead?” Castiel seemed to ask the same question for the fifth time before Sam was pulled out of his head long enough to respond.

“No, but-”

“We know who it is.” Dean interrupted him, letting Sam hold his hands together, clutching his right with the left. Feeling the hum in his palm and along his knuckles.

“Do you know where the witch is now?” Dean looked at Sam, it was hard to focus with his hand humming.

“We’re working on it.” Dean said turning back.

They were working on one of the seals, Sam had only been able to get that much before the conversation went in circles again.

“This witch is very powerful; she’s cloaked even our methods.”

“Okay,” Sam offered, trying to be focused and helpful, “well we already know who she is, so if we work together-,” it was useless. Uriel, the other angel, and Dean were puffing at each other again in seconds.

“You – uh,” Castiel corrected himself, glancing at Sam again, “both of you – you need to leave this town immediately.” But it was enough for Sam to feel the full weight of their handshake meeting again.

“Why?” Dean was still focused as ever. He wasn’t hit with the heavenly impact of everything the other two said.

“Because we’re about to destroy it.” Castiel’s warm rumbling tone pulled him back in again though.

“So this is your plan, you’re gonna smite the whole friggin’ town?” Dean was talking, jumping to conclusions. Because this had to be a mistake. They couldn’t be serious.

“We’re out of time. This witch has to die, the seal must be saved.” Castiel seemed so sure, desperate but sure.

“There are a thousand people here.” Sam tried, one of them would stop, turn to the other with shock, and start working with them. Try to _save_ people.

“One thousand two hundred fourteen.” Uriel confirmed. They did know.

“And you’re willing to kill them all?”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve… purified a city _.”_ Sam was struck, as Uriel spoke, with a reminder of Meg, grinning over the brothers, waiting for John to show. _‘I’ve killed a whole lot more for a whole lot less.’_

“Look,” There was Castiel, choosing words carefully again, “I understand this is regrettable.”

“Regrettable?” Dean was at it again, Castiel was returning the favour this time. Staring at Dean with a withering gaze. Sam felt a modicum of gratitude pass over him – at least when the angel had stared into Sam’s eyes and openly spoken of his demon blood damnation it had been with gentler eyes than that.

“We'll stop this witch before she summons anyone. Your seal won't be broken, and no one has to die.” Sam was pleading, Castiel’s eyes still on his brother, and then turning to Uriel as the other spoke.

“We're wasting time with these mud monkeys.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam wanted to believe Castiel’s voice, the genuine apology there, the attempt, “but we have our orders.”

“No, you can’t do this, you’re angels, I mean aren’t you supposed to-” Sam was pleading again. “You’re supposed to show mercy.” Castiel was still. Uriel scoffed.

“Says who?”

“We have no choice.” Castiel tried, against more of Deans confident anger, the same anger Sam had seen him use for any asshole, now directed to the angel that raised him from Hell, “Look, even if you can’t understand it, have faith. The plan is just.”

“How can you even say that?”

“Because it comes from heaven, that makes it just.”

* * *

Jacob wrestled the angel and was blessed. He’d fought and prevailed against heavens hand. He was blessed for it. Re-named. Hip-pain and all, at the end he was still blessed. He and Dean had just won, they had a chance to save lives. So why did Sam feel less blessed than he ever had in his life. He didn’t have to ask, really. He knew why. He pushed the back of his head into the seat and weakly slumped it down again.

“What?” Dean interrupted his thoughts.

“Nothing.” His hand still buzzed golden where Castiel had touched it, even rolling the hex bag in his palm he couldn’t distract from it. He knew Dean would stare at him till he said something, and if he didn’t then he’d roll his eyes and drive off, giving up on him. He sighed, “I thought they’d be different.”

“Who, the angels?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t really want to have this conversation with Dean.

“Well, I tried to tell you.” It was just better than driving around in silence when he had the chance to talk and make it less awkward.

“I just…” he shrugged, curling inward. He was a kid again, talking to Dean about one of the many things he cared about that Dean ruled off as stupid, but he gave in, “I mean, I thought they’d be righteous.”

Dean tried, talking about righteousness as an all-around bad, an asshole thing to have. It would have made sense, a great amount of sense really. But…

“But, I mean, this is God? And Heaven? This is what I’ve been praying to?”

“Just because there’s a couple of bad apples doesn’t mean the whole barrel’s rotten. I mean, for all we know, God hates these jerks. Don’t give up on this stuff, is all I’m saying. Babe Ruth was a dick but baseball’s still a beautiful game.” Sam knew as much as he was being a kid again, Dean was in full big brother mode, like he was trying to keep Sam’s chin up after some kid at school ripped one of his books up. This time he guessed Dean probably wasn’t going to give them a black eye the next day for good measure though.

* * *

Maybe it was the feeling-damned-already after talking to Castiel that pushed him to do it. If it could save people. If he was just ‘the boy with the demon blood’ to Castiel even after he tried so hard, even though they had just met, even though Sam had prayed to him and prayed to God. Maybe it didn’t really matter. Damned to Dean, damned to Heaven, there wasn’t really a difference. Uriel still wanted him to know, personally how deeply he had fucked up in the eyes of God.

“Tomorrow. November 2nd, it’s an anniversary for you.”

Sam hadn’t needed that reminder. He knew. He felt that date looming every year, he couldn’t help it. Uriel was picking at his strings, trying to get to him. Trying to get him to admit he was wrong.

He wondered if Milton was right, if Uriel really had unknowingly led Lucifer to the earth, if he was the “sharpest sighted spirit in all of Heaven”. If that was true, if after all that he had still gone on to smite as many cities as he claimed to? Did he feel like he had done enough already? Or maybe Milton was wrong.

“The only reason you’re still alive, Sam Winchester, is because you’ve been useful. But the moment that ceases to be true, the second you become more trouble than you’re worth, one word. One, and I will turn you to dust.” A flush of air and he was gone.

He knew that already.

It was still hard to hear.


	2. can i be gentle?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can’t tell if it’s worse to walk through  
> a forest with a path or without (a path).  
> damage done and damage made.  
> can I be gentle?
> 
> I mean
> 
> can I be gentle  
> — Lily Wang, from “Prayer,” published in Cosmonauts Avenue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you and your soulmate both feel like you’re not able to be good because you’re made to hurt people. woof
> 
> This chapter is at least post-s04e10

There were a few things Sam could kind of just understand about the situation: One - he couldn’t tell Dean what Uriel had said, two – Castiel likely felt the same, three – he also couldn’t tell Dean _that_ , four – because he couldn’t tell Dean that, he _also_ couldn’t tell Dean he didn’t really want either of them around. The hope he had in that first meeting had soured in his mouth, sitting there too long, festering down his throat, and he just had to try his best to keep his chin up, and not let it spill out into his hands.

He couldn’t explain to Dean that he couldn’t stand calling to Castiel, because if he opened his mouth even for a second it would all come creeping out. Rotted soured fruit oozing out onto the floor beneath him, seeping down his shirt and into his shoes. And that would be okay, really that would be fine, because he’d already done that for so long before, pressed his lips together all his life to keep it all in, gagging against the taste. Even with Jess, even now.

Dean was so happy to call and call and call Castiel, like a get-out-of-jail-free-card, Dean would be annoyed, and Sam would offer his dislocated shoulder, or concussed head, or broken rib and it was solved, without a hospital, without the Winchesters-walk-it-off method. But Castiel was worse than those options, really, because he would show up, do his holy laying on of the hands, and Sam would be left buzzing, in the shoulder, in the head, in the ribs. So this time Dean had called again, or maybe Sam had this time, he couldn’t really tell what was running through his head when it all happened.

Dean had gone in one door, Sam in the other, flanking three wolves. Sam probably shot too fast, probably gave Dean away, but he was outnumbered, so he fired, and the one he didn’t aim his gun on screamed out, and he was pinned by his throat onto the wall. John had trained them to stay calm under pressure, whether through shouting matches or actual hunts, or maybe just their constant near-death experiences had taught them over time, they would make it out, cooler heads prevailing and all that, because they always made it there just in time for each other, and Sam knew Dean would be there in a second, knew he’d hear those gunshots and he’d be dropped back to the ground. A gruff hand on his shoulder to steady him.

So he waited, but his throat was burning, and he waited for Dean, and the burning and burning, and trying to remember the countless times Sam had been knocked down, his lungs spasming in desperation, when Sam was unconscious and woken up to Dean carrying him, and those thoughts were disappearing because _holy fuck it burnt a lot,_ like swallowing bile back down. His vision going white at the edges, flashing, and without crossing the line in any conscious real way, he was all at once digging as best as they could into the wolfs hands with his fingernails, and reasonlessly into his own neck. He was getting light headed, and he was trying to keep his eyes open so he could see Dean, and he was trying to get out, and his body was spasming, and he could feel their claws digging around his neck and he swore he felt something crack and crunch and the pain was so bright and there was no way to get away from it.

No corner to back into. No way to get away.

So maybe in that moment he’d called Castiel, maybe it was him.

He could only tell he hit the ground because of how hard he slammed back down, and it tried to push a cry from his throat, but the choking, burning, voicelessly screaming pain in his neck wasn’t gone.

He was gasping for air still, now getting an awkwardly lacking amount. His body twisting and writhing like the dog they’d hit with the Impala when he was a kid, when John hadn’t stopped to go to the door for the family, and Sam had cried in the backseat, because it wasn’t just a monster that they killed and moved on from, because it was real, because Sam wanted a dog so badly, because he was a kid and kids cried over things that were small and needed to be cried over. But Dean had sat next to him and tried to get him to stop crying so John wouldn’t get mad. And of course when Sam was dying against the wall of some fucked up shack, he would be thinking about John.

Focus, he could still move his hands, he could feel them scrambling against the dirty floorboards because that’s what your body thought was helpful when you were dying. But okay, his neck wasn’t snapped, he could still move. He forced his hands to move their scrambling up to his neck, to find the elusive force that was still chocking him.

Where was Dean?

“-eaa-,”

Liquid bubbled into his mouth as he tried it, oh. Oh, so it wasn’t his neck, it was his throat. It was so broken and crushed he couldn’t even breath properly, couldn’t even call for his brother.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Snapped in half, how bad? Crushed like pipeline under a boot. If his eyes could clear away their white spotting of pain would he see it, if he could focus his muscles could he feel the break under his fingers, feel the cracked cartilage.

One hand reached out again, impulsively – a pant leg, and it wasn’t denim, so it wasn’t Dean, so his brother was probably actually, already dead, and whoever had strangled him had just wanted to see him choke on his blood of his own accord, rolling on the floor. The dog on the roadside. But his hand had gripped, he’d clung to that leg like a life raft, and a weak moaning sound of what Sam had to assume was begging was leaking out of his mouth with the blood, and he wondered if this is what it would feel like if he ever let that sour rotted taste spill out of his mouth.

A soft hand took his jaw, and with that slight disturbance his throat felt ripped asunder, and his body’s natural attempt at a scream again left him breathing in his own blood in a rush, a multiplication and snowballing of hot unswallowing pain.

And a golden buzzing.

And a ringing in the ears.

And a holy laying on of hands.

And Sam could breathe in again.

And the air lifting his lungs to life, and the understanding of what happened triggered such a core realisation and recognition that with his first possible breathe he –

“Ca-,”

* * *

Castiel quickly realised that the Winchesters were never in need of what he was actually trained to do. They never needed him in a fight – or more likely they did not trust him enough to call for that – never needed him to plan a course of action or an attack. He had gone to them, many times with orders like that from Heaven, to lead, to supervise, to be the commanding officer he had risen up the ranks to be. And, to watch the Winchesters obediently charge into battle for him, as Anna, or Ishim had led him through the cruellest of Heavens orders. But they didn’t listen to that. Maybe he doubted that they should.

And they certainly didn’t call him for it.

But he was not a Rit Zhen, not a medic. He was a Seraph; he was a soldier. He was designed to do what he had done since the beginning of time – serve the ranks of Heaven. He, and all angels knew that in truth; who had made them, what they had been made for. Their purpose. It was a very human desire to seek the same guidance that the angels were born with. Humans he supposed, from his limited experience were blessedly and unfortunately complex. Or maybe the Winchester’s were the outlying anomaly. They were, at least, anomalies in their reluctance to actually follow any of Heaven’s guidance though; Dean especially stubborn, and Sam especially nervous.

Castiel had never spent so much of his time healing as he did when the Winchesters called him, mid-briefing or meeting he would hear Dean’s prayer and drop from Heaven to their side. Bound by duty to help, he would land, Dean would commend him for taking his time, and Sam would try to avoid his glance, touch, and general presence.

They were both very confusing, Dean Winchester, saved and now under the protection of Heaven seemed to take anything the angel could give for granted. He’d heard and seen what it was like when man was met with the divine – reverence, worship, enlightenment – Dean had none of those things. And Sam Winchester, ‘The Boy with the Demon Blood’, he’d been warned about Lucifer’s vessel, about corruption, and venom, and unholy power - he was yet to see it. He had seen the young hunter with eager eyes, with the reverence he had expected to see in his actual charge, pressing palms and praying for his brother’s protection, clasping his hands together like a child when they did finally meet.

Sam had looked up, hopeful and scared with extended hand – like he was so wholly damned and cursed that to touch him was inconceivable. The angel could see the hope, he knew it was a test. If an angel would stoop to touch him. Castiel had not needed to stoop to reach Sam’s hand.

Yet now, despite that test being a success he now edged around Castiel’s form like it would burn him to touch despite all proof. It was unavoidable to notice that distinct difference between their first meeting and every consecutive one.

Sam’s anxious mistrust had to come, the angel guessed, from an insightful knowledge he somehow had that Castiel was made for crueller things than healing and helping. How his hands designed to kill, were not supposed to heal. He had seen and heard it from Uriel, of smiting thousands and the blasphemous ‘inferiority’ of humans. Still, despite those words and ideals drilling into his head for years, some selfishly selfless part of Castiel wanted to be the angel that Sam had initially hoped he was; before they met and Castiel had ruined it, maybe he wished all of Heaven could be that perfect and picturesque.

And as cautious in thought as he was with the future ‘Boy King’, when Sam had backed away, begging Castiel to stop while they tracked Anna, he couldn’t do worse than put the hunter to sleep – hearing Dean and Uriel exchange blows behind him, he stayed for a moment to watch Sam drop down at his feet; just to make sure he didn’t hurt himself on Castiel’s account.

So the Winchester’s called again.

But it was Sam’s call this time; unmistakeable in the way that Castiel had heard thousands of other prayers directed at heaven before – passing him by in the halls, never once giving him pause – but he did pause for Sam’s prayer, desperate and pleading like those thousand other prayers, unconscious, instinctual unlike all of Sam’s that had come before.

He had heard Sam pray, formal and practiced from years of thought and patience. But this was how Sam’s brain had panicked, this is how he’d prayed in need, to Castiel. Dropping out of his hesitant listening and next to Dean he had arrived, cautiously away from Sam – after the call – just to be sure, usually just in time, now a second too late.

Dean was between being slashed by the werewolf’s claws, and bleeding out, blood pooling beneath him and into the floorboards. He made short work of the wolf and was moving to Dean’s side before he could hear a desperate pained moan from the other side of the room. Throwing the angel blade straight into the other wolfs heart had been quick but healing the older hunter had taken more focus than that, melding Dean’s body back together, repairing deep ravines of flesh, as he had when Dean returned from Hell only earlier this year. Dean was half-lucid, but alive, when Castiel had turned to his brother.

And here was Sam at Castiel’s feet again; this time reaching out with blind hands. Gripping the angel’s leg as Castiel paused, hesitant to heal Sam, to have Sam’s gaze averting from him, to have his hands cringe in and away from him.

The angel knelt, hand cradling the hunters jaw, a devastating failure as Sam winced and choked on his own blood at Castiel’s touch. The angel thought of what Sam must have thought of Heaven, a real understanding of what Sam wanted from him, from his hands, from his grace. So the angel sent that light into Sam, into his broken fragile body, the one he had been warned of, the one filled with demon blood.

A bright, gold buzzing, followed by the quiet, helpless sound;

“Ca-,” Maybe Sam’s throat couldn’t finish the noise. Maybe Castiel couldn’t bear to hear the word completed.

“Your throat was crushed.” He said, cruelly matter-of-fact.

* * *

The young hunter picked at the ankle his jeans hem, sitting bunched on the curb, dying sunset reflecting off the Impalas windows and into his eyes. He hugged his legs tightly against the cool air that started settling in. He pushed his nose into his knees. The icy feeling sunk into his chest though, hunched to protect his middle from the air, leaving his back and shoulders open to the rigid cold. Physically tense against the hard frozen concrete. He thought about Dean, persistently relaxed, his body perpetually loose and calm in all scenarios, even in the heat of their hunts Dean had laughed and joked with Sam, and even what they were hunting on occasion. Quipping with near death. Dean could easily be sitting beside him, leaning back against the sidewalk with his palms, somehow. Despite it all. He wasn’t though, he was in the room behind Sam, lying unconscious somewhere, head against the pillows.

Still, Sam supposed, relaxed in his own, bloodless way.

“Thank you for coming.” He said quietly. The motel door hadn’t opened, the rush of feathered wings behind him was all he needed.

“I wouldn’t have known to if you didn’t pray.” Castiel said things simply, a gentle gravelly tone.

When had Sam last prayed?

He remembered all at once, how Anna had drawn the Milton’s giant round church window, and it was beautiful in person, casting coloured light onto his face. It made him think of Pastor Jim, the window at the top of the basement stairs. The Milton’s was his first time back in a church after he stopped drinking the blood. It was too much to go after Dean died, but when he was sober enough, he would drive, and sit in the Impala – Dean’s car – and watch the huge church doors, then drive back to where-ever he was squatting once he started feeling so sick with himself that he couldn’t look up anymore. Maybe the blood in his veins and in his stomach would have burnt up inside him when he stood on that hallowed ground, total proof he was damned to the core. When he did pray it was in the front seat, or in the abandoned house or motel, when Ruby – or now Dean – wasn’t in.

He hadn’t prayed since he’d met Castiel.

Why was that so faith-shatteringly hard to think of.

Sam was still tense, a spring constantly hooked, and never releasing. His breath relentlessly shallow.

“Dean is alright,” Castiel added, Sam realising belatedly, that he hadn’t replied earlier, “He’s sleeping.”

Sam wiped his nose again, sniffling, a little wet patch on his knee where it had been resting. The angel shuffled his shoes, letting the hunter know he was there more than he was moving out of nerves. Sam was tense. Constantly of course around Castiel, leaning out of his touch when the angel got close enough. The thought crossed both of their minds, Sam’s inability to let out that little bit of air he was holding so close, using it to keep his body tense. Castiel wondered idly if that was something his grace could change, if Sam could ease down into whatever warmth Heaven had given him. He pushed that away, the thought intrusive. But…

_Were his hands even capable of that tenderness, that gentleness?_

But Sam was sitting outside, he’d been sitting outside for an hour.

“You won’t wake him.” He assured, Sam stayed looking down, before pausing slightly, turning to look behind him at the stilted angel. His mild eyes making Castiel painfully conscious of his own tenseness.

“What?” Sam’s eyes were puffy.

“You do not have to wait outside. He’s sleeping deep enough that you won’t wake him.”

“Oh, right.” Sam looked down, his gaze now falling to Jimmy Novak’s shoes. Castiel looked down too, just in case he was missing something human about the situation; but doing that just made Sam look back into his eyes, lip twitching up for a moment before he turned back around, “Thank you again, Castiel.”

“It is my duty to look over Dean, and you,” Sam’s hand twitched to the back of his neck, “you don’t need to thank me.”

"I hope it isn't, uhm- difficult. I mean, I hope we aren't - making things difficult for you... To come down all the time for us- for Dean, all the time." Sam took a shuddering breath, “It must be a lot of work.”

The angel walked to the curb beside him and sat, a generous arms-length away, Sam looking the opposite way as he did, leaning awkwardly on the back of his wrist as he twisted. Castiel carefully put his hands onto his knees, trying to sit in an inherently uncomfortable position.

“It’s what I was tasked with.” He took a deliberately smooth and deep breath, “I’m sure you know all about insurmountable tasks.”

Sam’s head snapped to Castiel, eyes soft and hesitant. Castiel turned his head carefully to him in return. And they stared, both not relenting one of their few first moments of eye contact.

“Are you happy like that?” Sam asked. Fruit spilling out of his mouth, to Sam, rotted and sour, forcing his nose to scrunch in self-disgust. “Sorry, I, I didn’t- I didn’t mean to-,”

The fruit spilled into the angel’s hand, soft and ripe, and far too gentle for Castiel to hold in his hands. These were questions humans asked each other. Fruits they shared, pushed from palm to palm, torn with a skilled and collected thumb, releasing aroma with its division, passed around. But the angel had sat, and the hunter spilt his fruit; tumbled it into his hands.

Sam ran his hands through his hair to hide his face, quietly and finally saying. “Don’t answer that.”

“It’s… very kind of you, to ask that Samuel.” He complied.

Sam winced quietly, or maybe tired to laugh away the moment, or maybe just sounded off against the cold. But Castiel tensed, hearing Sam’s broken throat in his mind trying to voice his pain, pleading for his help in his mind.

“Are you hurt?” The angel leant forward, palm to pavement, ready to check and heal without answers. Sam stood whirling around and backing up.

“No!” Castiel staggered in his movement. Sam, still agitated, tried to turn casual, “No, Cass. I’m okay. Thank you.” He touched his throat, letting his mouth twitch up again into a smile.

“You can call me. If you need me Sam.” He stood, slowly, as though he were faced with a scared animal. “Or even if you don’t.”

The sound of wings, and Sam had time alone to despise his own childishness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited out a mention of the ghoul encounter from 4.19 because this is before that, it took me a good month to realise I messed that up, R.I.P.


End file.
